


Mezzo-forte

by Erisabesu (ErisabesuFic)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Food Play, Intense, M/M, Object Insertion, Post-Canon, Resort Getaway, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Testing Boundaries, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26293081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisabesuFic/pseuds/Erisabesu
Summary: "There’s no need for room service when they have three days to sustain each other with hedony and ardor in this long-awaited, private bacchanale."
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 15
Kudos: 102
Collections: 🐶🍙 omigiri fanfic collection





	Mezzo-forte

**Author's Note:**

> This is established OsaOmi where there is a deep connection of trust. That said, please mind the tags, this gets a little intense. (Vacation is where you try new things, right?) Enjoy!
> 
> Thank you to Seabhan for betaing, and being an awesome sounding board. ♥ Any inconsistencies or errors are my own.

**“Mezzo-forte”**

♦

Kiyoomi removes his facemask, and inhales the seaside breeze from the balcony of their third floor suite overlooking the private beach. 

Behind him somewhere in the bedroom, Osamu is unpacking the luggage. They’ve arrived in time to be welcomed by the wide arms of a blood orange sunset streaked with puffy clouds turned lavender with the sultry promises of night, and freckled with glints of pink rose petals. The breeze carries the flavor of tropical salt, and Kiyoomi wants to feel it all over his bare skin, removing all impurities. 

Osamu pads over to Kiyoomi, barefoot, and slips an arm around his waist. He presses his mouth — open, and warm — onto Kiyoomi’s neck, and laces his dominant hand with Kiyoomi’s where it curls around the balcony railing. Kiyoomi relaxes into the comfort of Osamu’s familiar chest. He tilts his head to the side, allowing access to the pulse in his neck, which Osamu claims, centimeter by centimeter, with lips and teeth and tongue. 

There’s no need for room service when they have three days to sustain each other with hedony and ardor in this long-awaited, private bacchanale. 

Kiyoomi closes his eyes, Osamu’s hand on his waist moving toward the center of his body and splaying over his abdomen like a starfish. Osamu’s fingertips pulse, like he’s sucking all Kiyoomi’s latent desires to the surface to pool behind his navel, just as his mouth has attached under Kiyoomi’s jaw and sends a small frisson of pleasure down to the arch of his feet. Kiyoomi traces over Osamu’s muscled forearm and mirrors the hand stretched directly over his belly, pressing down, like he and his body can merge backward right into Osamu the way one ocean wave tumbles into the next. 

“Kiyoomi…” Osamu murmurs, drawing out the syllables like a sigh, like coming home. A playful wind lifts the curls from Kiyoomi’s forehead, carrying the scent of honeysuckle. 

“Kiyoomi…” Osamu repeats, holding the sounds in his mouth like they are expensive, and to be savored. 

“ _Kiyoomi…_ ” Osamu says a third time, with unmistakable arousal, vocal cords simmering. Osamu’s foot gently presses into Kiyoomi’s achilles tendon, which puts his knee flush against the back of Kiyoomi’s thigh. 

Kiyoomi grips Osamu’s hands tight to steady the tremors of lust coursing through him, and then turns his head in answer, so their lips meet and seal, urgently, pressing their mutual cravings deep into their chests like the contained pressure of uncorked champagne. Osamu lets go of the hand on the railing, instead winding it into Kiyoomi’s hair and twisting him until the fronts of their bodies are aligned, stomach to stomach, and Kiyoomi feels wrought-iron against the small of his back. 

Osamu’s kisses slip into Kiyoomi soft as velvet, yet his grip on Kiyoomi’s waist is possessive, and the way he bends Kiyoomi backward is demanding, forcing Kiyoomi’s spine to arch out into empty air. Kiyoomi’s arms shoot wide, hands scrabbling for the railing at his sides as Osamu’s tongue plunges into his throat, suspending them half off the balcony with a rush of tropic wind tossing carelessly through their clothing. 

Kiyoomi kisses Osamu with tongue and teeth, leaning back and drawing Osamu even further off his axis with the promise of his lips. Osamu curves into his chest, knocking hips into pelvis and sending a thrill straight to Kiyoomi’s groin. Osamu bumps him harder and Kiyoomi’s breath catches in his throat.

“Open yer legs,” Osamu instructs, wedging both knees between Kiyoomi’s thighs. His hand cups Kiyoomi’s face, his thumb slipping between his lips and pressing along his tongue. 

Kiyoomi shivers, hands shaking on the railing. He opens his legs to the sides, tailored linen pants riding up his calves, feet sliding outward along the polished concrete and body lowering until Osamu’s hand squeezes his hip, halting him halfway in the splits. Kiyoomi gasps, adjusting the stretch in his shoulders against the edge of the railing with a fresh grip, the iron cool under his sweating palms.

Osamu’s lips curl in a smirk, and this time when he grinds into Kiyoomi they’re lined up exactly right. Kiyoomi lets out a breathy moan. Osamu leans back enough to hold Kiyoomi’s gaze, and runs his wet thumb across Kiyoomi’s lips. “Fuck. Yer perfect, Kiyoomi.” 

Osamu moves both hands between them to hastily undo their zippers, and Kiyoomi gives a fleeting thought to the rooms next door that could very well have occupants bearing witness to what’s about to happen. Any hesitancy dissipates like seafoam when Osamu’s hot hand clamps around Kiyoomi’s hardness, exposing the weeping tip to the air. Then Osamu’s thickness rubs along the underside and Kiyoomi bites his lip, holding his breath as Osamu’s big, capable hand strokes them tight together. Kiyoomi’s head falls back on his neck, mouth open to the twilight, panting. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Osamu repeats, fist working them over at a quick pace. Kiyoomi relishes Osamu’s impatience, makes slight movements of his hips as they find a rhythm both controlled and verging on unhinged. 

Osamu pushes Kiyoomi’s button-up shirt to his armpits, and his mouth attaches to Kiyoomi’s dusky nipple, biting and teasing. Kiyoomi groans, a shudder wracking through his whole body, arms and legs splayed open, and tense with the effort of holding the position. It’s intense — it’s _good_. 

“’ _Samu_ ,” Kiyoomi exhales, pleading, limbs trembling, every deliberate jolt of Osamu’s hips vibrating the iron railing behind his shoulder blades. 

Each second brings on the thrill of _what if the railing comes unbolted_ and _what if we just tipped over the edge_ , and Kiyoomi’s thudding heart sings with pleasure, suspended three stories above a decorative courtyard with a resplendent fountain of cavorting merfolk, and a garden path winding lazily down to the edge of a pristine beach lapped amorously by the turquoise sea.

“ _‘Samu…_ ” Kiyoomi urges, arching his chest into Osamu’s willing mouth, and aching with need.

Osamu hums into Kiyoomi’s skin, now glistening with a sheen of sweat. Osamu alters the rhythm of his wrist, slow, slow, then quick-quick-quick-quick, then slow, slower, and slower still.

Kiyoomi whines, teeth clenched, arms flexing. “ _Samu!_ ”

Osamu wraps a hand around the back of Kiyoomi’s neck, pulling him down close enough for a kiss that penetrates deep, that curls down low in Kiyoomi’s gut and coaxes out all his pent-up longings. Kiyoomi sways, sucking Osamu’s tongue into the back of his throat, and that’s when Osamu’s fist speeds up, faster and faster until Kiyoomi quivers and spills right there in his hand. Osamu kisses and strokes Kiyoomi through it, then hovers his wet mouth along Kiyoomi’s adam’s apple, biting down and letting out an obscene groan when his orgasm whips through him.

Kiyoomi drinks up the tremors wracking Osamu’s body where they touch, and struggles to suck in air, hands clenched so tight around the railing he imagines it molded into the shape of his fists. Osamu drags his hand down from Kiyoomi’s neck, around his back to squeeze his buttocks, while he milks the last drops from between their legs and then releases his hold before overstimulation can sour this moment of satisfaction.

Osamu lifts his dripping hand, showing Kiyoomi the results of this dalliance on the balcony. “Yer a fastidious person, Kiyoomi,” he says, cocking his head. “Let’s have ya clean this up.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes flash, part warning, part lust. He opens his mouth, and sticks out his tongue, which elicits an answering flash from Osamu. Osamu feeds him one finger after another, and then his palm, while Kiyoomi looks him directly in the eyes and consumes every last droplet. 

By that point, Kiyoomi’s arms and legs are shaking with muscle fatigue, bolstered only by his pride, which, though considerable, is not without its limits. 

Osamu cards his fingers through Kiyoomi’s wind-tossed curls, eyes hooded and soft, and presses their lips together tenderly. He refastens their zippers, but leaves their shirts untucked. Then he bends down to hook his broad palms under Kiyoomi’s thighs and lifts him effortlessly like he’s so much spun sugar. 

Kiyoomi folds long arms over Osamu’s wide shoulders, and goes unusually pliant in his hold, breathing through the burn in his muscles and the relief of leaning all his weight onto the one person he trusts enough to bear his burdens without letting him break. 

“Let’s get ya outta this so-called resort wear, and into somethin’ more comfortable,” Osamu suggests, taking Kiyoomi away from the balcony and into their suite.

Osamu’s voice has that suggestive timbre that makes Kiyoomi salivate. He wraps his arms tighter around Osamu’s head so he can dig fingers into his dark hair, and answers by pressing his mouth into the side of Osamu’s neck just above his shirt collar, leaving a mark as wet and red as a pomegranate.

♦

It’s early. Or it’s late; Kiyoomi doesn’t know anymore, and doesn’t much care. 

To have three days in a luxury resort alone with Osamu, who is known for never closing his shop, is a rare privilege that Kiyoomi will grip tight in both fists and protect to the very last drop of his blood. 

Kiyoomi glances up at Osamu from his spot sprawled in Osamu’s lap, and stretches, settling his head more comfortably against Osamu’s firm torso, Osamu’s knees and legs propped casually on either side of his ribs to support him.

“Open yer mouth,” says Osamu.

Kiyoomi smirks and parts his lips for Osamu to feed him another ripe, red Morello cherry from the bowl on the low table in the formal Japanese dining area of their suite. Kiyoomi closes his teeth on the fruit, and pauses so Osamu can pull off the stem before he starts to chew. Osamu watches him with interest, and tucks the cherry stem into his own mouth, grinning, his fingers leisurely tangling into Kiyoomi’s curls. 

The fruit is tart, and delicious. Kiyoomi swallows the flesh and then presents the pit on his tongue. Osamu gently plucks it from his mouth, and sets it on the small pile with the others on a side dish on the low table. Then Osamu retrieves the stem from his mouth and shows Kiyoomi a perfectly tied knot. Kiyoomi’s lips curl in appreciation, as Osamu places the knot in a row with the others on another small dish, and selects another cherry from the bowl. 

This time he teases Kiyoomi’s lips with its cool, smooth surface, making him reach for it. Kiyoomi snaps his teeth to catch it, then reaches up for Osamu, pulling on the collar of his silk yukata and bending him within range so he can feed it back to him, pushing the cherry into his mouth with his tongue. Osamu makes a hungered noise, and Kiyoomi tugs the stem free from the fruit with his teeth, smirking as he lays back down in Osamu’s lap. Kiyoomi watches Osamu chew while working the stem into a knot, feeling rather sated and content — and yet there’s still a burning in his gullet not yet satisfied. 

Kiyoomi ties a double-knot in the cherry stem, and then presents it on the tip of his tongue. Osamu chuckles, removing the stem and holding it up to admire it before setting it with the others. He turns and removes the cherry pit from his mouth, then licks his lips. 

“Yer a little minx, ya know?” 

Kiyoomi shrugs, but his cheeks have started to heat. Osamu bends down over him to exchange a sensual kiss, hands slipping under the folds of silk crossing Kiyoomi’s chest, and tugging to reveal the creamy expanse of his skin down to the yukata’s sash, all of his body artfully speckled with moles like some secret, ancient runic language. Kiyoomi squirms as the silky fabric falls aside, and Osamu’s fingers stroke along his sensitive ribs, the symmetrical swells of his taut abdomen, and the peaks of his nipples. 

These Osamu pinches, and Kiyoomi’s back bows up off the cushioned floor. He grabs onto Osamu’s waist behind him, fisting the navy yukata silk, and turning his head as his nipples are twisted and teased almost — almost — past the edges of his limits. Kiyoomi’s breathing hitches as he endures, biting his lip.

Osamu lets up suddenly, hands caressing Kiyoomi’s pecs. “Hoh,” he murmurs, voice taking on that signature, wicked lilt. “Yer as red as these cherries, ain’tcha?”

Kiyoomi huffs, not deigning to respond as the both of them are well aware that the flames in his cheeks match the punished redness of his nipples.

Osamu gives an exaggerated lick of his thumbs, one after another, and then slicks them back across Kiyoomi’s nipples, circling, pressing down, flicking gently yet incessantly. Kiyoomi squirms again in Osamu’s lap, aching with desire, and holding his legs together against the throbbing. He’s not the only one — Osamu is also reacting, and Kiyoomi shifts his shoulder-blade to rub against the hardness between Osamu’s legs in a semblance of retaliation, eliciting a low groan.

Osamu releases Kiyoomi’s nipples, sinking both hands into Kiyoomi’s hair and turning his head, angling him more securely across his lap before bending down for another searing kiss, tongues twined and seeking heat. Then Osamu replaces his mouth with another cold cherry from the bowl, pushing it between Kiyoomi’s teeth. Kiyoomi shudders, the flush on his cheeks spreading down his skin in increments, like the delicate insides of a seashell. Osamu tugs the cherry stem free, watching Kiyoomi start to chew, before also tugging on Kiyoomi’s sash. 

Kiyoomi’s yukata is a light blue, with an undulating pattern of mirrored lake water along the hem, and above this, the overlapping silver wings of elegant cranes leaping into flight formation. Osamu spreads the yukata apart, like the unfurling wings of said cranes, dragging fingernails over Kiyoomi’s hip and the inside of his thigh. 

Osamu’s eyes take in the swollen pink of Kiyoomi’s sex where it rests on his stomach, pupils dilating. Osamu traces the tiny bulbed end of the cherry stem along its length, and Kiyoomi can’t help the ripple of motion through his muscles at the strange touch, especially when Osamu slides the stem around the dripping head. Kiyoomi’s hands find Osamu’s knees, squeezing in uncertainty.

“Yer not eatin’,” Osamu chastises, and Kiyoomi huffs again, sucking on the cherry in his mouth and swallowing the tart juices as a distraction from the way the stem between Osamu’s fingers tickles across his erection. 

When Kiyoomi has finished the fruit and shows Osamu the rounded pit on his tongue, Osamu smirks, taking it from him and depositing it in the nearby dish. Then Kiyoomi feels the edge of the cherry stem return to the very tip of his erection, circling the tender slit.

“Let’s try something new,” Osamu murmurs, lips curving sly. Fox-like.

Kiyoomi’s eyes widen. Osamu continues to tease Kiyoomi’s slit with the tip of the stem, dragging it through the leaking drops of precome. Kiyoomi tenses, equally disgusted and intrigued, his hardness twitching in anticipation. When Osamu dips the stem down into his slit, and then further, Kiyoomi holds his breath, gripping Osamu’s knees like the posts on the wooden headboard of their bed back in Osaka.

“ _Good_ ,” Osamu whispers, leaving the stem half-inserted and brushing his knuckles along the underside of Kiyoomi’s erection. “Doesn’t hurt too much, does it?”

Kiyoomi shakes his head. It doesn’t hurt, exactly — but the stem’s irregular shape and narrow size makes it feel sharp as a toothpick, which is… distracting. _Disconcerting_. 

“Think ya can take another one?”

Their eyes lock. Kiyoomi swallows. 

Osamu cocks his head, looking down at Kiyoomi with affection. “I scrubbed all the fruit myself, Kiyoomi.”

Kiyoomi considers, heartbeat fluttering madly beneath his sternum. This is how it always is between him and Osamu, high up on a tightrope without a net, barefoot, the floor down below on fire. Still, he’s greedy. What he wants more than anything is to take what Osamu holds out to him across that gap, for his strength to measure up. 

Kiyoomi scowls, and answers with his open mouth, pleased to see Osamu’s dark, dilated eyes shining with eagerness. Osamu feeds him, pulling the cherry stem free. Kiyoomi rolls the fruit on his tongue, eyes locked on Osamu’s hand reaching over him and touching the stem to his aching slit, slipping it inside with the first. 

Kiyoomi fidgets at the subtle stretch — the end of the stem scrapes on its way inside, not enough to draw blood, but it pushes the first stem deeper inside and makes him fight to breathe. Kiyoomi’s hands grip painfully into Osamu’s knees, and he trembles as Osamu works the stems until they’re lined up equally, like twins. Kiyoomi sucks air in through his teeth, fighting against the urge to move away, take them out, _anything_.

Osamu’s hand closes around his sex and starts to stroke him, softly, and Kiyoomi quivers, teeth clenched in an ill-defined pleasure — how could he possibly describe it? Osamu somehow always finds ways to touch the places no one has touched, peels fragile layers and shows Kiyoomi parts of himself he never knew before. 

Osamu’s fingers tighten on an upward stroke, and he pauses, forefinger on the head, thumb pressing into the frenulum. Kiyoomi’s body jerks at the pressure on the stems inside his erection, shocks of sensation shooting down to his curled toes.

“–ahh!” Kiyoomi whines, then puts a hand over his mouth to stifle any further noises, shaking against Osamu’s chest.

“Yer doin’ so good,” Osamu whispers, pressing a kiss into Kiyoomi’s curls, and resuming the steady motions of his wrist.

Kiyoomi thrums with tension, fingernails digging sicles into the skin of Osamu’s leg. Osamu pauses his attentions, stroking fingers over Kiyoomi’s hips and stomach in lazy circles. Kiyoomi relaxes a meager increment. Breathes. He lets his hand fall away from his mouth and returns it to Osamu’s thigh, gripping hard into the muscle. 

Osamu drags his fingertips up Kiyoomi’s chest to his neck, and then traces the contours of his lips, tapping once in a silent command. Kiyoomi frowns, but opens his mouth. Osamu reaches deft fingers inside to remove the uneaten cherry from Kiyoomi’s tongue. 

“Don’ want ya ta choke,” Osamu explains, mouth quirked. “Yer gonna need ta keep yer focus, Kiyoomi.”

Kiyoomi’s heart gives a desperate thump. Osamu puts Kiyoomi’s cherry to the side, and takes another from the bowl, one with a longer stem by comparison. He shows it to Kiyoomi, before tilting his head back and taking the cherry into his mouth, plucking off the stem and chewing the fruit off the pit. As Osamu eats he twirls the end of the stem around the head of Kiyoomi’s erection, taunting.

Kiyoomi tenses, eyes locked with Osamu’s. Osamu smirks, and swallows, humming in appreciation, showing Kiyoomi the round pit on his tongue before placing it on the dish beside them. Then he shifts his attention back between Kiyoomi’s legs, and with the kind of care and focus with which he does most things, Osamu eases the stem inside Kiyoomi with the other two, sliding all three even deeper inside. 

Kiyoomi’s hands clench as tight as his teeth. The sensation is so surreal, Kiyoomi has to concentrate on moving his lungs or pass out from the cantering of his heart. Osamu leaves the stems as they are, fingers caressing up and down Kiyoomi’s shaft.

“Good, _good_ ,” Osamu murmurs, affection and desire rumbling in his throat.

Kiyoomi’s legs shift together unconsciously, and Osamu tuts. His warm hand guides them back open. Then he bends and brushes their lips together. “Yer so perfect, Kiyoomi. There’s no one more perfect, more stunnin’.”

Kiyoomi lifts his chin to kiss him again, needing something more than just the steady throbbing of blood in his sex, the pressure inside the slit ratcheting up his anxiety with every second that elapses. Osamu acquiesces, tangling his fingers in Kiyoomi’s hair, sweeping his tongue along Kiyoomi’s teeth and the roof of his mouth. Kiyoomi tastes the tartness of the cherries and salivates. Osamu slides his hand back over to Kiyoomi’s erection and pumps his fist, squeezing just enough that Kiyoomi has to break the kiss, panting and trembling in Osamu’s lap. 

Osamu licks the trail of saliva from the corner of Kiyoomi’s mouth. He brushes the hair from Kiyoomi’s forehead, which is damp with sweat. “Let’s continue,” he says, reaching for the bowl.

Kiyoomi’s whole body shudders in anticipation, a rolling of muscles from his shoulders down to his ankles. Osamu chuckles, biting into another cherry. He holds up the stem, so Kiyoomi can see the teardrop at its end. This time, after finishing with the fruit, Osamu wets the stem between his lips before touching it to Kiyoomi’s erection. 

At the first nudge, Kiyoomi bucks, hips jerking upward — he’s dismayed to realize he can’t tell if it’s in eagerness or fear, for both emotions are coiling through his belly like restless, trapped dragons. Osamu waits, so patiently, for Kiyoomi’s muscles to quell, before continuing. He then slowly presses the stem into the slit, angling it just so beside the other three stems, and with a subtle twist it sinks inside, twining with the others and shifting against the interior walls in an agonizing rush. 

Kiyoomi throws his head back, undulating in suspense, hips lifting into the air over and over unbidden. The noise that escapes him is frantic. Desperate. Osamu soothes him with gentle touches of his warm palm, always so sure and confident. But Kiyoomi’s nerves are jittering under his skin, mind pulled taut from the mental strain of needing to come, the overstimulation, and apprehension keeping him on that razor’s edge.

When Osamu picks out another cherry, and eats it, Kiyoomi feels something inside him fray.

“Think there’s room for one more?” Osamu tilts his head, chewing the cherry meat from the pit and rolling the stem between his fingers playfully. 

Kiyoomi swallows, unable to speak. Osamu’s dark eyes caress over Kiyoomi’s lean-muscled anatomy, and he runs the back of his hand across Kiyoomi’s erection, making it twitch and leak more dewdrops. Kiyoomi’s breath stutters. Osamu removes the cherry pit from his mouth, and then meets Kiyoomi’s gaze, dipping the stem into his mouth to glide along his wet tongue. 

Kiyoomi’s eyes grow large, lungs straining within his chest. Osamu moves the dripping stem towards Kiyoomi’s erection, and Kiyoomi goes rigid. When the stem is mere millimeters away from the others, Kiyoomi’s hand shoots out and grabs hold of Osamu’s wrist.

“ _Mezzo-forte_ ,” he says, voice thready, but clear.

Osamu’s eyes snap to Kiyoomi’s, and he halts instantly. “Okay, we’re stoppin' here, I’ll take ‘em out,” he says, gently tugging on Kiyoomi’s hold. 

Kiyoomi lets go of his wrist, and Osamu drops the cherry stem onto the low table, then carefully removes the other stems and discards them in the side dish. Kiyoomi spasms throughout the process, inhaling and exhaling deeply and growing light-headed when the last one comes free, and Osamu’s tranquil hand strokes him to soothe any lingering aches.

“There, all gone,” Osamu says, and immediately folds Kiyoomi in both his arms, carding through his hair and kissing Kiyoomi’s forehead and cheeks.

“Yer amazin’, amazin’,” Osamu whispers, over and over, and Kiyoomi clutches at him, still shaking. Osamu makes gentle shushing sounds; Kiyoomi isn’t even aware of what noises he’s making, he’s still wound so tight, his hardon so painfully erect and needing release. Osamu cradles Kiyoomi against his chest, kissing his temple. 

“Tell me what ya want, Kiyoomi. Tell me how you want to come. Anythin’ ya want. _Anythin’_.”

Kiyoomi clutches Osamu tight, panting into his neck. “What I want, Miya Osamu, is to come, _now_. At least once for every one of those things you put in me.”

“So greedy, Kiyoomi,” Osamu teases, kissing Kiyoomi’s ear. Kiyoomi turns and grabs Osamu’s chin, fingers and thumbs digging purposefully into his cheeks so their eyes meet. 

“You. Will. Shut. Up.” Kiyoomi states. Osamu’s eyes flash, but his lips curl with intrigue. “And you will put that bratty mouth to it’s best use,” Kiyoomi finishes. 

Osamu touches their foreheads together, and gives Kiyoomi a good long taste of his bratty mouth before settling Kiyoomi back into the floor cushions, silk yukata fanned out underneath him across the tatami. Osamu straddles Kiyoomi and sheds the navy yukata with patterns of cattails and dragonflies from his muscular form, and folds it into a neat bundle before tucking it beneath Kiyoomi’s head. 

Then he crawls down Kiyoomi’s body and takes up devoted residence between Kiyoomi’s limber thighs, using his mouth, his cunning, and any other assets at his disposal to feed Kiyoomi a chain-reaction of intense orgasms until Kiyoomi comes dry, back-bowed, and eventually, sated.

♦

Although the luxury suite has become a bonafide love nest Kiyoomi could easily stay cocooned in all day and night, he and Osamu do venture outside on occasion to explore. 

They zip each other into wetsuits and descend down to the private beach, complimentary surfboards in hand, riding waves through the dawn’s mist that transforms the beach into an ethereal setting. Osamu’s innate athleticism and soft, salty-haired smiles as he rides waves in the twilight of the morning transform him into a powerful, mythological mer-creature that takes Kiyoomi’s breath away. He can’t resist claiming the salt-swept lines of Osamu’s mouth, seawater and all, as the sand shifts between their toes, and the sun crests over the horizon and pricks the waterline with dancing glints.

At night they dress in suits to visit the top five-star restaurants in the area for decadent meals of Sole Meunière, Kobe beef filet mignon wrapped in Iberico bacon, an entrée of crack-open Naengmyeon, dessert of smoked Brie with figs and honeycomb, et cetera, “Fer research,” Osamu insists. 

Kiyoomi gives him a sideways smirk as he ties Osamu’s tie for him, freshly laundered and pressed after he’d knotted it around Osamu’s wrists and ankles for a particularly intense round of lovemaking some hours before. At their table Kiyoomi relishes the way Osamu’s expressions shift in variations of enchantment when a dish is placed in front of him, each increasingly more exotic than the last — while Kiyoomi fills his belly with soup and cocktails.

They pay the fee for an extra late checkout, taking their time in the luxurious outdoor onsen to rejuvenate sore limbs, and thoroughly massage the kinks from each other’s muscles before having to pack their things for the drive home. When they return to their rooms, they see evidence that newcomers have checked into the empty suite next door, two men by the sound of it. Kiyoomi pays this no mind, at first, sorting his toiletries and returning them to his travel cases, until the muffled voices on the other side of the wall start to intrude.

The continuous chattering from next door is irksome, words dampened by the thickness of the suite’s paneling, but the cadence of incessant dialogue trills like a novice pianist’s ungainly minuet, bright chords and scales that fall out of key in Kiyoomi’s ears, grating and disrupting the pleasant ambience he and Osamu have cultivated in these stolen days far away from all else. 

When the obtrusive babble finally winds down and stops, Kiyoomi lets out a sigh of relief. He joins Osamu in the bedroom and helps zip their suitcase, and wheels it over to the others. Then they step out on the balcony and lean on the wrought-iron railing for a long, last look at the decadent view, the afternoon sun bright and tempered by a steady breeze. Kiyoomi leans into Osamu’s side, and slides his arms around him, resting his chin on Osamu’s shoulder. And then the voices from next door start up again, this time in an unmistakable, primal rhythm. 

Kiyoomi and Osamu turn to look at each other as they listen. The neighbors must also be on a lover’s getaway, if the grunts and moans filtering through are any indication. Osamu puts his arm around Kiyoomi, and traces circles on Kiyoomi’s shoulder and neck, curling fingers into his hair as they listen to the two men in the neighboring suite making love frantically, and without any sense of art. 

The whole act lasts less than four minutes, and ends in a chorus of barbaric yelps and cries, and then silence, which can be attributed to exhaustion or unconsciousness, more likely the former. Kiyoomi’s lip curls, and he sniffs. Osamu’s amused leer is equally judgemental, and they share a quiet moment of mirth, arms tightening around each other. 

Kiyoomi nestles into Osamu’s hold, angling his chin to press his lips against the corner of Osamu’s mouth. 

“You’d never bore me like that, would you,” Kiyoomi says, half statement of fact, half subtle challenge. 

“Dunno,” Osamu’s lips curve into a Cheshire grin. He turns towards Kiyoomi to push a lock of hair from Kiyoomi’s forehead, then draws a fingertip down Kiyoomi’s nose. “Yer never gonna make me _want_ to be borin’, are ya,” he replies. 

Kiyoomi lifts an affronted eyebrow, and Osamu cocks his head as their eyes meet. Kiyoomi imagines their future and his chest fills with a strange, siren song, made up of Osamu’s breath, and the taste of his skin, and the weight of his heated gaze. Kiyoomi keeps hold of its melody, tucking it deep inside, letting the air between them charge and stretch taut, desires seeping through all the cracks and intermingling until it’s hard to remain still there on the balcony, overlooking a majestic, tropical paradise whose beauty can’t quite live up to the quiet — sometimes moderately loud — moments of perfection they have come to share. 

Osamu is the one to make the first move. “Open yer hand,” he says, tugging on Kiyoomi’s forearm. Kiyoomi looks at him quizzically, holding out his non-dominant hand in answer. 

Osamu takes it, caressing the tendons on the back with his thumb, and stroking the pulse in Kiyoomi’s wrist. Then he turns it over and places his mouth in the center of Kiyoomi’s palm. Kiyoomi can feel Osamu’s warm exhales, lips lazily mouthing over his skin and Kiyoomi’s cheeks start to heat from the inherent intimacy. Osamu spreads Kiyoomi’s fingers, licking the pads from thumb to pinky, and then returns to his fourth finger, which he sucks down into the back of his mouth.

Kiyoomi’s flush spreads to his neck, glancing between Osamu’s darkened, hooded eyes, and the lips around his finger. Osamu’s teeth graze the base, right where Kiyoomi’s finger connects to his palm, and he _bites_ — not enough to break the skin, but enough to make a mark, and to quicken the pulse in Kiyoomi’s veins. Osamu moves his teeth in increments, biting down as he twists and sucks on Kiyoomi’s finger, caressing it with his tongue. Kiyoomi swallows, the alternating pain and pleasure sending sparks down to his groin.

When Osamu eases Kiyoomi’s finger from his mouth, Kiyoomi sees a deliberate band of reddened bite marks marring his skin. Osamu admires his handiwork, and then kisses Kiyoomi’s knuckles. “Perfect.”

Kiyoomi laces their fingers together and squeezes, stomach full of flutters and the deep longing for their small kitchen, Osamu’s freshly made onigiri, plain cotton sheets on the bed, and the familiar, constant hum of the dehumidifier.

Kiyoomi puts on his face mask, and leads the way through the suite where their luggage is lined up and ready by the door beside their shoes, just in time for the bellhop’s arrival. 

While the bellhop transports and loads the bags in the trunk of the rental car, the valet folds down the convertible top for them and presents Kiyoomi with the keys. Kiyoomi pulls on his driving gloves to accept them, then settles into the driver’s seat, fixing his sunglasses against the late afternoon glare, while Osamu handles the tips. A few minutes later Osamu slides into the passenger’s seat, tucking two cold bottles of water from the lobby hospitality center into their cupholders. 

“Ready?” Kiyoomi asks, turning the key in the ignition and gunning the engine. 

Osamu chuckles, buckling his seatbelt. He untucks his sunglasses from the collar of his button-down shirt, puts them on, and slides his hand over to Kiyoomi’s knee. Osamu squeezes an affirmation, and Kiyoomi shifts the car in gear, and takes them home.

—

Ω

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I have fallen hard for OsaOmi and plan to explore them a lot more. ♥  
> (Also, do not try this stuff at home, folks!)
> 
> Shout-out to the Omigiri server, who enabled this contribution to the OsaOmi nation agenda. XD <3333
> 
> Find me on twitter! \o/ [@erisabesu3](https://twitter.com/erisabesu3)


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